Welcome to Baker Street

106. High treason

Flashback to the night Moriarty met Thomas Wellington

As soon as agent Wellington walked out of the glass doors of a modern building in Central London, Moriarty started tailing him. He took all the usual precautions and disguised himself so that not even the most trained eye could recognise the notorious criminal mastermind beneath all the professional makeup. However, Thomas Wellington wasn't paying the slightest attention to him. He was too distressed, utterly oblivious to the world around him.

It didn't take Jim long to notice that something was off with his target that night; he wasn't headed to his hotel. To be exact, he wasn't going anywhere. He was aimlessly wandering around, stumbling on his feet.

He wasn't drunk, though, Moriarty deduced. He was just in deep emotional peril.

Jim smirked in the shadows of an alley, keeping a safe distance from his prey as his mind methodically analysed the situation.

Observation n. 1: Agent Wellington didn't have any clear destination.

Inference n. 1: Nobody was waiting for him anywhere. He wasn't supposed to meet with any colleague or exchange information.

Conclusion n. 1: That was Jim's best chance to approach him.

Observation n. 2: that poor devil looked very upset.

Inference n. 2: he was extremely vulnerable.

Conclusion n. 2: That was his best chance to lure him in.

As straightforward and consequential as this reasoning process might look, it would take between 20 and 30 seconds for an average brain to go through all the logical steps until reaching those two conclusions. And yet, it barely took Jim Moriarty four seconds to decide to step out of the alley and join the solitary man on the riverbank. After all, he had no average brain.

Moriarty walked up to the railing where Thomas Wellington was leaning while gazing along the Thames. Jim stopped a few feet away from him and remained silent, listening to the other man's laboured breathing. Thomas didn't even acknowledge the presence of another soul; his hands spasmodically clutched the railings, and he screwed his eyes shut. Suddenly, his anguished howl filled the air, piercing the immobility of the night.

Jim arched a brow at that unexpected display of distress and cleared his throat, making him jump; Thomas hadn't realised that someone else was standing next to him. Moriarty showed him a sympathetic smile.

"It doesn't seem like you're in the best of moods."

Thomas stole a glance at that stranger and scoffed, "That's one hell of an understatement."

"Rough night?" Jim inquired, striving to sound more concerned than intrusive.

"Possibly the worst."

Moriarty half-turned towards him and eyed him from head to toe before affirming, "I doubt it."

Thomas furrowed a brow, squirming uncomfortably under his inquisitive gaze.

"You think I had it rougher?" he asked in a serious tone, laughing inside at the irony. He was originally the chief of security for British diplomats, later turned into the personal bodyguard of a woman who narrowly escaped from a targeted explosion. And now he was collaborating with the MI6. Not exactly the classical definition of a placid life.

Jim glanced eastwards along the river, hiding his malevolent grin under his turned-up coat collar.

"I simply think that the worst is yet to come."